IF the quick spirits in your eye
Now languish and anon must die ;
If every sweet and every grace
Must fly from that forsaken face ;
Then, Celia, let us reap our joys
Ere time such goodly fruit destroys.

Or, if that golden fleece must grow
For ever free from aged snow ;
If those bright suns must know no shade,
Nor your fresh beauties ever fade ;
Then fear not, Celia, to bestow
What, still being gather'd, still must grow.
Thus, either Time his sickle brings
In vain, or else in vain his wings.